


Look Up,

by peregrinefalcon



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Minor Character(s), Quidditch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-05
Updated: 2017-09-05
Packaged: 2018-12-24 05:33:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12006114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peregrinefalcon/pseuds/peregrinefalcon
Summary: 'I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.'Sarah Williams, ‘The Old Astronomer'----for snakepitnet.tumblr.com





	Look Up,

‘Oi, Derrick, watch where you’re going,’ Randolf Burrow grumbled as  _he_  walked into Perry’s shoulder. The Ravenclaw chaser sneered at him while he rubbed his shoulder and glared back.

Typical behaviour. Ravenclaws were always sore losers, and Perry had got Burrow  _good_  during the match. Peregrine was a dogged and forceful beater, a speedy player despite the weight of the bat in his hand; a slick creature, lean and hungry.

But off the pitch, he was something of a dazy fellow. Without the wind thrashing against his face, the buzzing of the bludgers homing back to him, the roaring sound of blood thundering within his ears, he was lost to a silent world, moving around him in drowsy, heavy ellipses. He looked up to the sky and imagined its dizzying movements, studded with immeasurable secrets, unknowably organised by the mathematics of magic.

This fascination commanded most of his free time – whenever the team wasn’t drilling on the pitch, Perry was either in the common room working his way through turgid tomes, throwing himself into impenetrable theories that, at a second glance, seemed like common sense; or he was sneaking out to the Astronomy Tower after dark, when all his dearest and farthest friends came out to relay messages to the listening.

Perry would bring along his broom, and leap out of the observatory window; he’d feel the air balloon up his robes, feel it comb through his hair. Then his feet found the stirrups of his broom, and he was no longer falling, but soaring, with wind singing in his ears and his soul floating despite the weight of his bones.

He wanted to follow the orbits of planets, to hear the roaring of asteroids, and to taste the lightning of the stars; he wanted to wander far away into that unknowable yet predictable universe, exhilarating and new despite the ancient maths that roiled within his mind; mysterious and terrifying even though he had known it all his life.

The Perry at Hogwarts was only a shade of himself, like the ghost of sunlight that bounced off the marbly moon. He wandered through the school’s corridors languidly, his long limbs heavy with the exhaustion of his exertions, his head cloudy with the innumerable nebulae of equations and formulas spinning around each other and colliding in a spark of numbers that he had no idea how to make sense of, yet desperately wanted to understand.

‘That Derrick boy has the attention span of a gnat,’ his professors all said, incognisant of the intense attention he constantly focused upon the stars, the planets, the galaxies; he stumbled his way through his courses, an unremarkable student despite his academic promise. He was even an under-performer in Astronomy and Arithmancy – for he was less interested in how space and maths centered around  _him_ ; and far more interested in how he can center his life around _them_.

His classmates treated him like some dunce, scatterbrained and oafish, for he was distracted wherever he went, and his movements were awkward on the ground. They mistaked this for who he was, not knowing that he was not of this earth; he belonged to the sky, a burning and empyrean thing, together with the stars. He had a different magic; it was hidden, introspective, a genius that could not shine during the day, a gift that wasn’t entirely apparent.

So they provoked him with callous comments and aggravating assumptions, for they looked down upon him for his opacity, and they hated him for his obvious knack for flying. Moreover they detested his hunger – for he wore his ravenousness on his face, dark eyes empty for the stars, sharp scythe of a grin waiting to cut down the harvest of his victory on the field.

Although he may be preoccupied, do not mistake that for ignorance or indifference; he was a prideful boy, and these remarks only made him want to prove his worth. He would bleed to defend his honour, and he often did – with a keen rage he would shove his antagonists against stone walls, bruise their skin with shrunken purple galaxies, put the vision of constellations into their eyes.

Do not mistake him for prey; for he has talons and wings, dignity and a taste for blood.

Above all this was proven on the Quidditch pitch.

Peregrine had always been quietly dangerous, the way an un-notched arrow was. But when he was flying through the air, darting around the pitch on his broom, he was an assertive predator. He felt the most like himself when he was playing Quidditch, his hawkish eyes trained upon his game, a wild hoot perching at the top of his vocal chords. He could fly through air like a searing knife through butter; and Quidditch held in thrall of his full attention.

Because in Quidditch the maths revolved around him. He was the comet, the asteroid, the sun. He was gravity and anti-gravity. Bludgers always orbited back to him, but he had the power to propel them out of his trajectory; the drag of inertia tugged at his figure but he slipped out of its grip like water. He felt  _free_ , unweighted whenever he flied; and thus he was a sharper, more daring version of himself, devastating and dauntless.

He loved Quidditch, every small detail of it – from the soothing feeling of supple leather against his skin, to the sharp yank of muscles when he fought against the velocity of the bludger with the immovable force of his bat; from the scorching excitement of victory, to the acidic emptiness of falling short of the mark. He loved Quidditch because it challenged every part of him and reminded him that he was alive; he loved Quidditch because it was  _him_  in the sky with the maths once more. There wasn’t a target that Derrick couldn’t hit; there wasn’t a maneuver that Derrick couldn’t execute. His style was  _calculated_ , neat, fresh. It was written in the magic of the sky.

Lucian Bole shoved Burrow out of the way. ‘Don’t take your lousy playing out on Derrick,’ he snarled, his expression sharp despite the smudgy dirt muddying his features. Perry felt the prick of tantalising aggression pick at his temper under the stoking of Lucian’s backing.

‘Perhaps  _you’re_  the one who should grow some eyes,’ Perry smirked, ‘Maybe it’ll help you actually find the hoop before your butterfingers drop the quaffle.’ He leveled a patronising glance at Burrow, who glowered furiously at him.

‘Good game,’ Lucian quipped as they left the Ravenclaw team sulking on the pitch. Smugness flitted through Perry; it felt good, even though Burrow was an easy victim. They folded back into the Slytherin team, surrounded by a jubilant, almost verdant crowd of cheering students.

But Perry wasn’t looking at them as he walked into the mass.

He was looking up, grinning; counting down to the next moment he’d be back up there again.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, constructive criticism is encouraged and appreciated!
> 
> Come say hi to me on tumblr: durmstranqs.tumblr.com


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